"If not me, then who?" I ask, huffing out a laugh and offering him a weak, watery grin. "You need somebody lookin' after you. You're obviously shit at doin' it for yourself."

I lift a hand to his face, tracing the curve of his jaw, my thumb brushing across his cheekbone.

When it comes down to it, I didn't miss the sex. I did, obviously, but that was only secondary to all the rest. I missed his face, his hands, the shape and weight of him in bed next to me. I missed waking up and making fucking breakfast together. I missed all the little things that maybe didn't seem all that important at the time.

Now, I'm touching him and I know I'm gonna have to stop, eventually. The idea of that-- of letting go, even if it's only temporary, terrifies me.